"They're always crying for you," said the Tetawani; "'Israel ben Oliel!
Israel ben Oliel!' that's what you hear in the mosques and the streets everywhere.' Shame on us for casting him out, shame on us! He was our father!' Jews and Muslimeen, they're all saying so."It was useless.The glad tidings could not find their way.
That black page of Israel's life which told of the people's ingratitude was sealed in the book of memory.Israel laughed.What could his good friend mean? Behold! was he not rich? Had he not troops of comrades and guests about him?
The prisoners turned aside, baffled and done.At length one man--it was no other than 'Larby the wastrel--drew some of them apart and said, "You are all wrong.It's not his former state that he's thinking of._I_ know what it is--who knows so well as I?
Listen! you hear his laughter! Well, he must weep, or he will be mad for ever.He must be _made_ to weep.Yes, by Allah! and I must do it."That same night, when darkness fell over the dark place, and the prisoners tied up their cotton headkerchiefs and lay down to sleep, 'Larby sat beside Israel's place with sighs and moans and other symptoms of a dejected air.
"Sidi, master," he faltered, "I had a little brother once, and he was blind.Born blind, Sidi, my own mother's son.
But you wouldn't think how happy he was for all that? You see, Sidi he never missed anything, and so his little face was like laughing water! By Allah! I loved that boy better than all the world!
Women? Why--well, never mind! He was six and I was eighteen, and he used to ride on my back! Black curls all over, Sidi, and big white eyes that looked at you for all they couldn't see.
Well a bleeder came from Soos--curse his great-grandfather!
Looked at little Hosain--'Scales!' said he--burn his father!